


i don't believe in anything (but I brought a candle)

by lostinthefire



Series: This Is Me Not Praying [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Non-Sexual Kink, Nonsexual Ageplay, crisis of faith (or lack thereof)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinthefire/pseuds/lostinthefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is on a journey to restore her faith in anything.  This takes her on a deep exploration of herself, the things she wants and the things she deserves but never had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this can be blamed on my beta and I looking at all the age play ever, ysabetwordsmith's series (which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/42722)) and my general desire to play with anything to do with Natasha.

At night she finds herself lying in her bed, memories flooding her mind and threatening to overwhelm her. She feels the pull of the past around her throat and wonders if she’ll choke on it, if tonight she’ll finally lose the war she’s been fighting since she was a child.

But she never loses, never falls under, never gives in. She lives to see the dawn and she remembers herself. She may not have faith in much, may not believe in a god, may not even have faith that the universe will play fair -- but she believes in herself. 

Most of the time. There are times when even that falters. In the dark, in the dead of night, when the sun’s been gone for too long and it’s colder than she’d like. There are times she wonders if she’ll make it through that night, when she wonders if she’s haunted.

And sometimes she remembers the words she spoke, the claim that love is for children. Maybe she got it wrong; maybe it’s faith that’s for children. Maybe it’s both. Maybe she’s too far gone for any of that, for faith and love and other silly notions that people talk about. Maybe she’s far beyond them.

And yet.

Yet she lies in bed at night with her eyes closed, forcing herself to claw through her nightmares and muttering hesitant words to anything that will listen. It’s not praying, she refuses to think of it as praying, but it’s something. It’s pleading with something to be just a little kind, a little gentle.

She knows her words will fall on nothing. She knows that she won’t get a response, won’t see a miracle. She doesn’t even believe in such things but sometimes, just every now and then, she finds herself wishing she did, finds herself longing for the belief that she sees in other people. Belief in humanity, in a god, in themselves.

She’s looking for something that never falters, that pushes on like a heartbeat. She can’t think of anything like that, can’t rely on love or faith or identity, doesn’t have anything that stays steady except the ever thrumming comfort in her chest.

She wonders if she ever had it, ever believed in anything so fiercely that nothing could make her falter. There was never an answer she liked. She never found something she could point to and say “yes, this is what captured my faith as a child”.

Five nights spent awake thinking on the topic -- imagining what it would be like to have that, to believe, to be soft and small and something that was not so sharp and jagged -- and she knows that she wants it. She wants to grab hold of that part of her, that careful little part she keeps tucked away, that part that wants belief again, and let it see the sun.

Then it just becomes a matter of what she’s going to do with it. Even knowing what she wants, she finds it hard to put into words. They get caught in her throat, tangled in her mouth. She can’t say ‘someone make me believe again’, or ‘make me feel small and loved and cared for’.

It isn’t that easy, it’s far from easy.

She’s always gone after what she wants, pounces on it with claws bared. She attacks and drags it back to her hiding place, takes whatever she craves. But this is the opposite of that, this is something gentle and sweet, this is something she wants to be careful with.

And maybe that’s how it starts because she needs something to remind her to be gentle, to keep her claws in and relax a little.

That’s how she picks up the little stuffed fox. It’s nothing impressive, nothing she’d expect to pick out for herself if, for whatever odd reason, she felt the compulsion to buy such a thing. It finds her, hidden in a bargain bin at a store she happens to be passing through. She looks at it, runs her hands over its fur, strokes its tail and finds herself drawn to it.

That night she’s in bed, her eyes closed and her body curled around the little stuffed animal. She says sweet words to it, comforting words she means for herself, promises that she’ll wake up in the morning, assurances that the little toy will be there too. It’s silly, stupid even, but she takes a surprising amount of comfort in it. She relaxes just a bit more, lets her defenses down when only the little fox can see.

And when she sleeps well, at least for a night or two, and dreams of woods and stories and falling back into a world she’s hardly ever visited.


	2. i wish i may, i wish i might, pray this once for a storybook night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is trying to get comfortable with this emerging part of herself but it's not something easily accomplished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am rather pleased with this so far and I think I should get the last part of this particular fic up by Monday. Eventually there will be the other Avengers, I thought they would show up in this one but apparnetly I was wrong. They will show through the series though!

She doesn’t call it snowballing, even though it feels like it. No matter how fast or slow things went, it would have felt like just that; it would have moved too quickly for her to understand. Because there are things she doesn’t comprehend, things she fails to understand in a very deep way, although she gets the logic behind it. Oh yes, logically, she can understand everything she’s doing. Logically, it doesn’t surprise her in the least.

And she is so often a creature of logic, of strategy, of things held at arm’s length.

But now she’s not holding anything at arm’s length. Now she’s curled up with her little toy, eyes shut, humming soft songs to herself. Now she’s playing pretend in her apartment, where no one can see her secret dreams of something more. Of faith and family and a life she never got to lead.

It doesn’t start out that way, though; she doesn’t dive right in with happy families and storybooks. She’s too conditioned for anything _but_ those things, conditioned for hardness and for edges. She hasn’t been soft, even with herself, for a long time.

The little fox helps. She comes home after a stressful mission, after someone’s pissed her off, after a day where she’s just done with everything, and she sits on her bed, petting the little creature with nimble fingers. She winds her hands through its fur and cuddles it close.

Would she ever admit to this? Even to Clint? No, of course not; but in the safety of her apartment, she doesn’t have to admit it to anyone but herself. It’s still hard to be honest, to tear her walls down, but she does it. She lets herself have this one little thing, this one strange indulgence that makes little emotional sense to her.

Then the books happen.

It’s not an accident, not exactly, but she claims it is, says to herself that she didn’t intend to find them. She’s deluding herself, lying to make this easier, but she doesn’t care. She’s still not ready to accept that this might be a part of her life now, something she wants to pursue.

She picks up the collections of fairy tales for next to nothing. They’re well-worn and the pictures are faded but that doesn’t matter to her. They are a treasure, a part of the secret life that she’s finding harder and harder to deny. She takes the books home, puts them up in her closet and doesn’t touch them for days, denying that they even exist, although her eyes often wander in their direction when she’s not paying attention or she’s laying in bed and too uncertain to sleep.

Soon enough, it’s late at night (early in the morning really, as she can see the dawn approaching) and she’s still not slept. Her nightmares pull at the corners of her eyes and she’s wrapped around her fox, her cheek pressing into its plush body. She doesn’t care that this has become routine, that when she’s haunted she finds herself resorting to this. It’s fine, it’s a coping mechanism, it’s what she has to do to get through the day. There’s nothing wrong with it.

(Except maybe there is. Maybe she’s doing something wrong somehow and she’s not even aware of it.)

Why she goes for the books, she can’t say. Why she brings the fox with her is also beyond her comprehension. But she gets up with the toy tucked under one arm and pulls down the books, standing at her closet door and leafing through the first, then the second collection. Eventually she brings them back to bed, curls up in the corner, balances a book on her knees, and looks to the fox.

Maybe it should get a name, she thinks to herself. Maybe it deserves that much. Then she reminds herself that it would be silly and she really shouldn’t indulge this oddness to that extent.

“Do you want to hear a story?” she whispers, her voice barely audible. She feels like an idiot saying it, feels like a fool and a child and she has no idea what she’s doing. Her teeth sink into her tongue and she almost shuts the book, grabs the fox and shoves them both in her closet. She stays where she is though, not moving, not breathing, just hoping that this might get easier somehow. She peers at the book, at the faded pictures of the wolf and Red Riding Hood, and she runs her hand over the cover. 

Maybe she’s just appreciating the story. Maybe she’s just doing this to broaden her knowledge of myths and fairy tales. Maybe this has nothing to do with childish belief and the desire to be something she isn’t.

Maybe if she keeps saying it enough, in her head, out loud, to the fox, she’ll believe it. Maybe this will pass. Maybe this is something she can get over.

Or maybe this is something she needs. Maybe she needs storybooks and stuffed toys and stars to wish upon. Maybe she needs a little of that childish belief she’s trying to deny.


	3. i didn't mean to start believing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is comfortable with herself in private but soon enough, she finds that she wants to share this side of her with others, even if it might not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this particular fic. I enjoyed writing it immensely and hope to continue the series soon enough. The next part will include her being open towards the other Avengers and them learning to accept as much of her as she's willing to show.

It’s hard to not be strong. It’s hard to be small and gentle and kind. It’s hard to let herself relax and be something more than the jagged creature she had grown into. She’s spent so many years being nothing but the Black Widow, nothing but the being that was feared and deadly and nothing like what she’s trying to be now. It’s no surprise that it takes her time to get used to this.

But she is nothing if not able to adapt, and she does. She learns how to be softer, be gentle. She learns how to read stories out loud to her fox and how to color. She learns how to play games and laugh. It’s freeing and comfortable and warm and safe. She can’t shake the safety of it, even after she’s put her books and toys away. 

It’s only until she gets in contact with someone, anyone really, that she finds the spell broken. Clint will call her and see how she’s doing or Darcy will want to come hang out for a while because she’s in town. Anyone at all can break the magic that she casts over herself and it makes her frustrated, even angry. She wants to be able to keep hold of the feeling, the safety. She doesn’t know how to do that without telling someone what she’s doing, though, and she _can’t_. She can’t do that, no matter how much she may want to.

But she does want to. She’s happier this way, letting herself be this childish version of herself. She hasn’t captured the belief she’s looking for yet, hasn’t had faith in anything yet; but it’s close, it’s comfortable, and that’s something.

She can’t imagine how anyone else will react, other than ‘not well’. She can’t shake the feeling that they’ll hold it against her, think her odd or doubt her capabilities. It’s silly, it’s stupid even, but it’s there, resting in her mind, sewing her mouth shut with fear.

And even with that fear keeping her quiet and the doubts raging in her head, she keeps coming back to it. Keeps wondering if maybe, just maybe, she could say something. Clint is her partner; he’s seen her through so much, what’s one more thing? And this isn’t even a thing he needs to help her with, she just needs to tell him, to show him that she can be something more, something softer. Maybe he won’t even care, maybe it will just be something they keep between them and that’s it. Maybe it won’t make a difference and they’ll just go back to the way things are.

Or maybe she’ll have someone to play with. Maybe he’ll think it’s fine and he’ll come over and they’ll talk, he’ll tell her a story or two and she can show him her fox and the storybooks and....

She shakes her head, laughing bitterly. That wouldn’t happen even if he did think it was fine. She can’t let someone in, couldn’t let someone see her the way she is when she’s alone. She can’t reveal that part of herself, not even to Clint, though she would do it with him before she would with anyone else.

And even though she tells herself that he doesn’t need to know and she doesn’t need to tell him, her mind keeps wandering back to it. Back to having someone to play with, to tell her secrets to, to... to be kinder around

Still she keeps herself quiet, keeps her secrets close. She can’t bring herself to do it for a long time; she can’t imagine what he would say, how he would react. But one night, she lies in bed, tossing and turning, mumbling to her fox as she so often does and she feels it: the resignation in her chest, the decision heavy in her mind.

She started this whole thing because she wanted to learn what it was to have faith. Maybe it’s time to have that in others; to believe that if she said something to someone, even if it was only Clint, things would be okay. Maybe she won’t get a partner to play with, but he would know. She could show him that she could be something more than diamonds, beautiful and hard to break. She could show him that she’s so much more than that.

She could show him that she has faith in him, that she believes he won’t judge her for this.

When she finally does fall into sleep, she dreams of laughing, of leaning against someone and giggling over stories and playing with toys. She dreams of trust, of safety, of acceptance. She dreams that everything will be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me elsewhere:  
> [My DW](http://rootsofthestories.dreamwidth.org) (which I use regularly)  
> [My Tumblr](http://analtarofstars.tumblr.com/) (which I am very rarely on)  
> [My Twitter](http://twitter.com/harvestgraces) (which I am on at random)


End file.
